Cat's in the Cradle
by storylover18
Summary: Sam and Dean find themselves on a hunt where kids are getting sick and dying from what appears to be Spanish Influenza. It's a race against time to figure out what's causing so many innocent deaths and destroy it before it wipes out Saxonburg, Pennsylvania. Set in season one, sometime after 1x18. Eventual sick!Dean and caring!worried!Sam wrapped in a hunt!fic. No slash.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural.**

 **Hello, SPN Family! I am new to this wonderful community (late-comer, I know) and after wracking my brain for a sick!fic idea that was at least somewhat original, I found one. It's set somewhere in season one, after 1x18, "Something Wicked". I hope you enjoy the first chapter!**

The small diner was filled with regular breakfast sounds: people chatting over their coffee, silverware scraping against plates, the hiss of the grill behind the swinging kitchen door as the waitress hurried back and forth serving up hot plates of food.

Dean was currently on his third helping of pancakes. Sam's plate was opposite, knife and fork neatly straightened along the edge to indicate he was finished.

"Anything good, Sammy?" Dean asked, his mouth half full as he poured a generous amount of syrup over his plate.

"Maybe," Sam said, his eyes quickly scanning the rest of the article in the newspaper. He folded it down so he could see his brother.

"Saxonburg, Pennsylvania."

Dean craned his neck to see the headline: Mysterious Spanish Flu Epidemic Claims Five Lives in Last Week.

"Why's that suspicious?" he asked.

"Spanish Flu existed nearly one hundred years ago, for starters," Sam said. "In 1918, it infected nearly a third of the world's population."

Dean shrugged.

"Maybe it came back," he said. "Or maybe it's not Spanish Flu. You keep mentioning that we're entering the era of superbugs that can't be treated with antibiotics."

"Maybe," Sam agreed, though his tone implied he didn't think he was wrong.

"Okay, what else?" Dean asked.

"The article says that five children have died from it."

"So? I've always said children are walking germ factories."

"No, it's more than that," Sam insisted. "All children, all perfectly healthy, and all dead within seventy-two hours."

"So what do you think it could be? Another Shtriga?"

"I don't know," admitted Sam. "But I think it's too unusual to be happening naturally."

Dean sighed and scanned the article again.

"Are you sure there's nothing else out there?"

"I'm sure. Come on, we've driven farther on less information."

He looked at his brother with innocent eyes. Dean hated those eyes; sure, he had grown up with them and was more or less immune to their effect but not totally.

"Fine," he finally agreed.

* * *

"Miss Clark," Sam smiled warmly at the young journalist. "My name is George Cummings, this is my friend Bill Francis."

Dean smiled charmingly.

"I understand you researched and wrote the article about the developing flu epidemic?"

"I'm not sure five is an epidemic," the journalist admitted. "But yes, I did. Can I help you with something?"

"We're students at Pitt," Sam continued. "And we're working on a paper on the politics of epidemics. We had a few questions we were hoping you could answer."

"I'm happy to try," she said, motioning to the chairs in her small office. "And please, call me Julia."

"Well, Julia," Dean said, taking a seat. "What can you tell us about the deaths?"

"Not much apart from what was in the article. Eight children have died with what the doctors say is Spanish Flu."

"Eight?" Sam shuffled through papers in a folder and looked back at her. "The article reports five. Three more children have died?"

Julia nodded.

"Yes, a brother and sister yesterday and a boy this morning. One of my contacts at the local police station called me so I could include them in the total tally but the article had already gone to print."

"Do you have their names?"

Julia lifted a few different stacks of paper on her desk until she found the pink post-it note.

"Clinton and Julie Burgess," she read. "Aged six and three. And Jonathan Moore, aged twelve."

"Terrible," Sam said under his breath and Julia nodded.

"What do you know about these people?" Dean asked. "Are you from Saxonville?"

"Saxon _burg_ ," Julia correctly in a disapproving tone. "And no, I'm not from there but I have friends there. It's a small town, barely over fifteen hundred people. I don't know much about the victims except what my contact with the police said and the obituaries that have already come out."

"Why are the police involved?" Sam asked. "Is that normal?"

"I suppose you've read about the procedures that are in place for an epidemic," Julia said.

"Yes."

"No."

Dean and Sam's voices overlapped and Julia raised an eyebrow.

"I would have thought that would be one of your first sources for your paper."

"It was," Dean corrected himself hastily. "Of course it was. We've read the general policy, I thought you meant the policy specifically in Saxon _burg_."

Julia held his glance for a minute before looking at Sam.

"If you've read the policy, you know that law enforcement is kept up to date on any potential threats to the community and that includes disease. The town is so small, though, that everyone knew about these kids getting sick even before the police showed up at their homes."

"At their homes?" Dean repeated and Julia nodded.

"All but one died at home," answered Julia. "Which meant the police had to be in attendance."

"Do you mind giving us the name of your contact in Saxonburg?" Sam asked. "It would really help us if we could speak to someone from the area about what's going on and what the police and medical authorities are doing to address it."

He smiled sincerely, his eyes wide, and Dean saw Julia duck her head as she smiled back.

"I don't normally give up my contacts," she said. "But I think I can make an exception for you."

Dean rolled his eyes as she scribbled the name on another pink post-it note.

"Thank you," Sam said, standing. "And thanks for your time."

Dean and Julia stood with him.

"I don't think I was much help," said Julia. "But I'm happy to answer any other questions if they come up."

She picked up a business card from the holder on her desk and held it out to Sam.

"Call me if there's anything else."

Sam took the card and nodded, the same innocent smile on his face.

"Will do. Thanks again."

Dean followed Sam out of the office building and onto the sidewalk.

"Dude, she was _into_ you."

Sam rolled his eyes.

"She was just being helpful. She wanted us to get a good grade."

"She wanted to give you a good grade."

"Let it go, Dean."

"I'm just saying,"

"Drop it."

Dean sighed.

"Those puppy dog eyes are wasted on you, they really are."

* * *

The drive to Saxonburg didn't take more than forty-five minutes and as they drove down what the street sign told them was Main Street West, Dean raised his eyebrows.

"Can't imagine living in a place like this," he muttered. "Everybody knows everybody and there's an American flag on every corner."

They pulled into the parking lot of Saxonburg Police Station.

"How do you want to do this?" Dean asked.

* * *

"May I help you?" the officer behind the window asked Sam and Dean, who were now sporting jackets and ties.

"We're looking for a Sergeant O'Connor," Dean said.

"May I ask what this is about?"

"We're with the Center for Disease Control." They both flashed faked badges. "We have some questions about the flu outbreak."

"One moment and I'll see if she's available to see you."

The officer picked up the phone, spoke into it briefly, and then set the receiver down.

"She'll be right out."

"Thanks."

Sam and Dean stepped away from the desk and sat in the plastic chairs lined against the wall. A moment later a fierce-looking woman with her hair slicked back into a tight bun appeared.

"May I help you?" she asked and Dean smiled warmly.

"We're here to ask about the mysterious flu epidemic," he said.

"Strange business," Sergeant O'Connor sighed, leading them back to her office. Sam and Dean sat down opposite the desk and Sam pulled out a little notepad. "What do you want to know?"

"Do you have any idea where this sickness came from?"

"Doc Shepherd doesn't have much in the way of ideas on where or how it started," the sergeant said. "But he is certain that it's Spanish Flu."

"What makes him so certain?"

"He said he ran tests," the sergeant shrugged. "I'm not a medical woman, I trust his word."

"What about the victims?"

"All local," answered the sergeant. "Oldest one was twelve, the youngest one was six months old."

"Has there been any strange activity lately?" Dean asked.

"Strange how?"

"You know," Dean continued. "Strange noises, people seeing things, reported break-ins."

"What are you suggesting? That this was done on purpose and these children were poisoned?"

Dean shrugged.

"No," the sergeant said firmly. "Nothing like that. We're a small town that gets along fine. Nothing strange or out of sorts."

Sam could tell that they were beginning to wear down the sergeant's patience.

"Can you walk us through the timeline?"

The sergeant shot Dean one more stern look before glancing at Sam and sighing.

"It started about five days ago with Ian Pike. Got a call from his mother saying he had died during the night."

"Did you go to the scene?"

"I did," the sergeant nodded. "The poor boy was blue and had blood coming from his mouth and nose." She looked out the window for a long moment. "I've seen a lot of things in my time," she continued. "But that one will haunt me for as long as I live. His brother died two days later in the hospital."

Sam frowned.

"From what?"

"Spanish Flu," the sergeant answered. "His mother said Nicholas caught it from his brother and by the time Doc Shepherd got to him, he was past hope."

"Who was next?"

The sergeant frowned.

"Surely the doctor would be the better person to speak with about all of this," she said.

"We need to collect information from both the medical personnel but also those who responded to the calls," Sam explained. "The two perspectives offer the most comprehensive timeline."

Sergeant O'Connor nodded and sighed.

"The day after Ian Pike we got another call from Patrick Fitzgerald. His little girl Ellie had died in her sleep."

"I'm sensing a pattern," Dean commented and the sergeant nodded.

"All of them had the same story. The same day as Ellie was Lori Harmon and the next day it was Erin Robbins. That one broke my heart."

"Why?"

"Erin was six months old," the sergeant replied. "Her parents had been trying to have a baby for years and everyone thought Erin was a miracle but her mother had a rough go of things. She was being treated for post-partum depression."

"Was there anyone else?"

The sergeant nodded.

"Clinton Burgess was found dead in his bed yesterday morning and his sister Julie died in hospital last night. Jonathan Moore died this morning."

"Are there any steps that you're issuing to the public?"

"Just that we're aware of the situation and to employ good hygiene practices. You know, stay home if you don't feel well, wash your hands, that sort of thing."

Sam nodded and glanced at Dean. His brother had no other questions and stood up.

"Thank you for your time, Sergeant," he said. "And keep your head up. We'll figure this out. Do you know where we'd find Doctor Shepherd this time of day?"

"Try the clinic down Pittsburgh Street. If he's not there, he'll be at Butler Hospital."

The sergeant escorted them out of the police station.

"What do you think?" Sam asked and Dean sighed, pacing alongside the Impala.

"I don't know, Sam. It's terrible and sudden but it doesn't exactly scream paranormal."

"I think we should talk to the doctor."

Dean looked at his brother.

"What makes you so sure there's something here?"

Sam shrugged.

"I'm not sure," he answered. "But I just have a feeling. Come on, we're already here. The health clinic is only a few blocks away."

Dean relented and twenty minutes later they were asking the doctor, a dark-skinned older man with a kind face, the same questions. He confirmed everything the sergeant had said about the timeline.

"Sergeant O'Connor said you ran tests to ensure this was Spanish Influenza," Sam said and the doctor nodded.

"I did," he confirmed. "Spanish Influenza was thought to be a strain of H1N1," he continued. "That's what the children all tested positive for."

"Why call it Spanish Flu?" Sam asked. "Why not H1N1?"

"Because of the degree of symptoms," Doctor Shepherd answered. "The 1918 influenza was a particularly violent strain of H1N1. So is this one. The symptoms and patterns are almost identical to what was described in 1918."

"We'll need copies of your tests," Dean said in his most authoritative voice.

"Of course," the doctors said.

"We'll also need to see the bodies if possible," Sam added.

"Doctor," Doctor Shepherd said to Sam. His face and tone were serious. "I am happy to cooperate and show you the bodies but I assure you, the tests and the physical appearances all indicate this was Spanish Influenza."

"We don't doubt you," Sam said. "But we're looking for anything out of the ordinary that may suggest why here and why now."

Doctor Shepherd leaned back in his chair.

"I suppose a few extra sets of eyes can't hurt," he admitted. "I can show you Clinton and Julie Burgess and Jonathan Moore but all the others are already at the funeral home."

"You didn't perform autopsies?"

"I did," the doctor replied. "But these poor families want to put their children to rest and it didn't take long to confirm what I had suspected."

"What did you find?"

"Just what you'd expect," Doctor Shepherd answered. "Lungs full of putrid fluid."

Dean wrinkled his nose – that sounded less than appealing – and glanced at the clock.

"Is it too much trouble to ask to see the bodies now?" he said. "I know it's getting late and I'm sure you have a family to get back to but we would really appreciate it."

"Of course," Doctor Shepherd stood up. "They're in the morgue at Butler Hospital."

* * *

Sam had never liked morgues. It wasn't that dead bodies freaked him out but he hated disturbing corpses, especially innocent young children.

"As you can see," Doctor Shepherd said as they glanced over the three bodies, all of them grey and still. "They were bleeding from the nose, mouth, and ears."

Sam peered down at Clinton and saw the blood trail from his left ear.

"And you found fluid in their lungs, I assume?"

"Liters of it," the doctor answered. "Poor souls, they drowned in their own sputum."

Dean shuddered; what a horrible way to die.

"What about the bruising?" Sam asked. "Has this been consistent?"

All three children had large bruises on their shoulders and smaller ones on their faces.

"It's not unexpected," the doctor answered. "As I'm sure you know, the blood underneath the skin coagulates as the body dehydrates and bruises can form even after death."

"Of course." Sam said. "We've taken up enough of your time, Doctor Shepherd. Thank you for your cooperation."

"Of course," Doctor Shepherd said. "I'm surprised the CDC appeared so quickly but it's reassuring to know that some of the nation's best are looking into this. It will ease the worry of the entire town."

"We'll do our best," Dean promised.

 **Ten points to whoever can find the hidden music reference! Also, fun fact, Saxonburg is a real place, as are all the locations mention above. All the people are made up though.**

 **Your thoughts and comments are very appreciated – it's my first Supernatural fic so it was a little hard to get the cadence right and it continues to be a work in progress. I'll update as soon as I can! Thanks!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural.**

 **Hi everyone! Thanks for your interest in the story so far – it's always encouraging to know others are reading my work and want more of it! This chapter took an unexpected turn while being constructed (as they so often do) and ended up with a flashback of what the fandom has so endearingly called "Weechesters". I hope you enjoy!**

Later that evening, Sam and Dean were sitting in their room at the Hotel Saxonburg. Two slices of leftover pizza were growing cold on the small table and there were at least a few empty beer bottles kicking around.

Sam was on his computer, as per usual, and Dean was lounging on the bed watching TV.

"Dude, you could at least turn the TV down if you're not going to help."

Dean didn't reach for the remote.

"I don't know what you're looking for, Sammy. Yeah, all the kids getting sick sucks but I'm still not convinced there's something here to hunt."

"And I'm not convinced there isn't," Sam shot back. "And until we're certain there isn't, we need to work the case."

Dean sighed. His brother had trapped him using his own logic.

"Okay," he said, turning the TV off and swinging his feet to the floor. "What have you found so far?"

"Not much more than what Sergeant O'Connor and Doctor Shepherd told us," Sam answered. "All of the reports came back conclusively as Spanish Flu."

"Why's it called that? Did it originate in Spain or something?"

"Not exactly," Sam said. "During World War One, the flu was spreading around and many people called it Spanish Influenza for propaganda purposes. No one knows where it started, though many thought it actually was in Spain."

"One of these days I'm going to ask you a question and you're not going to know the answer," Dean muttered and Sam smirked. "What about the victims?"

Sam picked up a thick file and moved so he was sitting next to his brother.

"The first one to get sick was five-year-old Ian Pike. His mother said that he'd been feverish when she put him to bed. She gave him some Tylenol and he was sleeping soundly when she checked on him before turning in. He was still running a fever the next morning so she kept him home but by the evening he was on the mend. Next morning, he was dead."

Sam held out the picture of Ian's body on the coroner's table.

"Yikes," Dean muttered, wrinkling his nose.

"And the sergeant said his brother died as well?"

Sam nodded, holding out another picture of a smaller boy with many of the same features.

"Nicholas," he said. "Two years old. Got sick the day after Ian died and his mother took him straight to the hospital. He died there the next day."

"Okay, who was after Ian?"

"Eloise Fitzgerald and Lori Harmon," Sam said, passing over their photos. "Nine and seven."

"Let me guess," Dean said. "They have the same stories?"

Sam nodded.

"Yep, got sick a few days before, seemed to be on the mend, went to bed and never woke up. Erin Robbins died even quicker. Her father said she was fine when he went to work and she could barely breathe when he got home. He called 911 but she was dead by the time the paramedics arrived."

"And then there was Clinton and Julie Burgess and Jonathan Moore," Dean said. "The ones we saw in the morgue. Their story is the same, too?"

Sam nodded again.

"It's too much of a coincidence, Dean. Something or someone is systematically pegging off these kids."

Dean glanced at all the photos with a creased forehead, flipping between and comparing them.

"Yeah, okay, so there's something strange going on. But what? It doesn't fit the pattern of a Shtriga. They keep their victims alive to feed off them."

"A ghost or maybe an angry spirit?" Sam guessed. "But why these kids? And why now?"

"Maybe because they were already sick," Dean suggested. "You said that all of them except Erin had been sick and were starting to get better before they died."

"Maybe," agreed Sam. "And, apart from Erin, they all died overnight which means something would have come into their rooms."

"What was different about Erin?"

"She was the youngest." Sam said, finding the coroner's report for the infant. "And the sergeant mentioned that her mother was being treated for post-partum depression."

"Why would that make her a target?"

"I don't know."

"Where any of the other mothers depressed?"

"I don't know," Sam repeated.

"It shouldn't be too hard to find out," Dean said, standing up. "In a town like this, there are no secrets."

"Where are you going?"

"No better place to get information than the local watering hole, Sammy. Coming?"

* * *

Dean had been right. Especially with a few drinks in them, the townspeople of Saxonburg were more than willing to talk. Sitting at the bar, Dean smiled at the bartender.

"Haven't seen you boys in town before," she said. "What brings you here?"

"Funeral," Sam said before Dean could come up with a story. "Erin Robbins."

"I'm sorry," the girl sighed. "It's a terrible story, especially after they waited so long for her."

"It's not easy," Dean agreed, raising his beer. "To Erin."

"I'll drink to that," the bartender, whose tag read Laura, agreed. She poured herself a shot and raised the glass. After swallowing the liquid, she sighed again. "The entire thing is just so sad."

"What do you mean?" Sam asked.

"All of the kids are getting sick," Laura said. "Surely you've heard about it, especially given what happened to Erin."

"We've heard bits and pieces," Dean said. "What can you tell us about it?"

"Not much apart from apart from the basics – who, when, and how – but everyone is getting scared. Parents especially."

"Speaking of parents," Sam said. "What do you know about the parents of these kids?"

Laura smiled sadly.

"They're all good people," she said. "Everyone in this town is."

"Everyone's got secrets," Dean replied. "And I'm sure that as good as the people in this town are, secrets are hard to keep."

"You've got that right," Laura laughed. "I've lived here my whole life and news travels quickly. Half the town knew I was going to be born before my dad did."

"Any secrets on Clinton and Julie's parents?"

"Parent," Laura corrected him. "Mr. Burgess was widowed last year. His wife died from cancer."

"Were any of the other parents widowed?"

"Not exactly," Laura answered. "But Mrs. Moore was a single mother – she raised Jonathan alone since he was born – and Mr. and Mrs. Pike are in the middle of a nasty divorce."

"What about the Fitzgeralds?"

"As far as I know, they're fine although Mrs. Fitzgerald had a high-profile job in the city. She's barely home, even on the weekends."

"What about Mrs. Harmon?"

Laura sighed.

"Mrs. Harmon has not had an easy life."

"What do you mean?"

"Her first husband was a drunk and beat her and Lori. They say he committed suicide and she remarried Mr. Harmon but it wasn't because she loved him. She wanted Lori to be looked after so she married whoever could provide a roof and food. If you ask me, Lori stood a better chance with a single mother."

"Why do you think that?"

"Mrs. Harmon hasn't been the same since she married again," Laura shrugged. "She barely leaves the house, she started chain smoking, and binge drinking. Lori is – was – used to looking out for herself."

"Mr. Harmon didn't love his new step-daughter?" asked Dean.

"No," Laura snorted. "When he got married he pretty much saw it as a free, live-in maid with benefits."

"You said you've lived here your whole life?" Sam asked and Laura nodded. "Do you remember anything like this happening before?"

"All the kids getting sick, you mean?"

Sam nodded.

"No, nothing like this has ever happened before. Doctor Shepherd keeps saying it's Spanish Flu but no one knows what that is. Most people hear that and say they've never been to Spain. No one knows what to make out of it or how to protect their kids."

"Well, thanks for your time," Sam said, glancing at Dean. "You going to stick around for a little while?"

"Yeah, why not," Dean smiled charmingly at Laura, who smiled back. Sam rolled his eyes.

"I'll see you back at the room."

As he walked away, Sam heard Dean say, "You know the real reason it's called Spanish Flu?"

* * *

Sam was already asleep when Dean got back to the hotel room, a happy and relaxed smile on his face. Not bothering to be quiet, he got changed and fell into his bed. Dean fell asleep quickly – he'd had enough to drink that it was almost effortless – but he a strange dream.

* * *

A younger version of he and Sam were in a shabby hotel room. From the looks of things, they had been there awhile. Empty take-out containers and trash littered the floor, the bed sheets were crumpled, and the cupboards were practically bare.

"Dean?"

Dean turned his head away from the television – Mumm-Ra was searching for the mask of Gorgon – and blinked a few times.

"What, Sammy?"

"I don't feel good."

"What's wrong?"

"My tummy hurts."

Dean sighed.

"Do you want something to drink? I can go get some ginger ale or something."

Sam nodded and Dean sighed.

"Okay. Anything else?"

"Animal crackers."

"Coming right up," Dean mumbled under his breath. He sat up and did up the laces on his boots.

"Lock the door after I leave," he said. "And you remember the knock?"

Sam nodded and Dean left the room. When he came back, he knocked three times and waited for Sam to knock back but there was no reply.

"Sam?" Dean called. "Sammy, you there?"

He pounded on the door but no one came to reply to the knock. Setting his shopping bag on the ground, Dean picked the lock with ease and cautiously peered into the room.

"Sam!" he exclaimed, barely taking time to close the door and slide the chain in the lock before he sprinted into the bathroom. His little brother was being sick into the toilet.

"It's okay," Dean said, coming up behind Sam. "It's okay."

"No, it's not!" Sam wailed, tears streaming down his cheeks. "I want Dad."

Dean sighed.

"I know, Sammy, but it'll be over soon, I promise. I got you ginger ale, that'll help."

It took Dean over an hour to get his brother from the bathroom floor to bed. John always left them with a first aid kit and Dean rifled through the small canvas bag until he found the bottle of children's Tylenol he knew was in there.

"Here Sammy," Dean said, taking their last clean spoon from the drawer. "This will help you feel better."

Sam was nearly asleep, exhausted from throwing up, but cracked his eyes open to see Dean sitting on the side of his bed, carefully measuring out the red liquid.

"Do I have to?"

"Yes." Dean didn't leave room for negotiation. "If you pinch your nose you don't taste it."

Sam pushed himself up and did as Dean suggested, though his face still puckered.

"It didn't work," he muttered, falling back onto his pillow.

"But it's down and that's all that matters," Dean answered, taking in his brother's pale complexion accented by rosy fever spots on his cheeks. Sam fell asleep while Dean was still sitting there and the elder Winchester sighed. This wasn't the first time he'd had to take care of Sam; he didn't mind, of course, but it was never fun. Sam wanted their dad and Dean couldn't blame him but the only thing he could do was put on a brave face and say it would be okay soon.

Dean cleaned up the bathroom as best as he could and settled in for the night. He put a towel on the floor between their beds and set the trash can on top of that. He put a cup of ginger ale on the bedside table and then got into his own bed, turning off the lights.

* * *

The dream continued, though a few days had clearly passed from when Sam told Dean his tummy hurt.

* * *

They were in the same room – John hadn't come back apparently – and Sam was lying listlessly on the couch. He was getting better but very clearly still felt sick.

Dean was camped out on the bathroom floor, groaning as the cradled his aching stomach. It had taken less than forty-eight hours for him to catch Sam's stomach bug and he'd spent the last six hours lying on the tiled floor, half of the time shivering with the bedspread wrapped around him and the other half of the time enjoying the coolness of the floor as he sweat out a fever.

Although he never said it, he desperately wanted John to come back and realize his boys were sick. It didn't matter that his father was not the coddling type, Dean wanted somebody to be there to look after him the way he looked after Sammy.

The afternoon grew later and Sam eventually left the couch and stood in the bathroom door.

"What's for dinner?" he asked.

"You hungry?"

Sam nodded and while Dean knew this was a good sign, he did not want to think about food.

"What do you want?"

"Soup."

"Okay, I'll make it in a minute."

Sam returned to the TV and Dean pulled himself together. He hadn't actually thrown up in a while but his stomach rolled precariously as soon as he stood up.

Making dinner was not easy. The smell alone was enough to send him back to the bathroom more than once and by the time he hurriedly placed a bowl of soup on the table for Sam, he could feel bile rising in his throat.

"Be careful it's not too hot," he managed to mutter before running back to the bathroom and slamming the door. After a gruesome fifteen minutes, Dean at least felt slightly better as he left the bathroom.

"Sam?" he called tentatively from the relative security of the door frame.

"Yeah?"

"Is the soup gone?"

"Not all of it, want some?"

"No." Dean's voice was firm. "Get rid of it. Pour it down the sink."

"Why?"

"Just do it. Please," he added in desperation. The extra word tacked on was enough to convince Sam to get up from the couch and empty the pot.

"Are you okay?" Sam asked, peering at his brother.

"Fine," Dean lied, though he knew his brother didn't believe him for an instant. He may only be six but he'd seen Dean parked in front of the toilet for most of the day; he wasn't stupid. "Are you ready for bed?"

"It's still early."

"You're still sick, Sammy. The rest will be good for you."

Sam sighed.

"Fine," he mumbled. He turned the TV off and got into his bed.

"Medicine," Dean said simply, holding out the spoon onto which he'd already poured the children's Tylenol.

"Are you gonna take some?" Sam asked, handing him back the spoon once he'd swallowed the medicine. Dean realized he probably should and nodded, taking a swig from the bottle rather than measuring out another dose.

"Goodnight, Sam," Dean said, falling back into his bed and turning out the light.

"Night, Dean."

Dean fell asleep quickly – much like Sam a few nights ago, he was simply exhausted from being sick – but he woke up suddenly when he felt the edge of his bed sag. He groped for the gun underneath his pillow but his mind was foggy and his fingers clumsy.

"Dean," a voice soothed and Dean blinked a few times. It was a woman's voice, clearly not John.

"Dean," the voice said again and he felt a cool hand run over his forehead and through his hair. "Relax, sweetheart. Mommy's here."

Dean swallowed.

"Mom?" he repeated.

"Shh," the woman's voice replied, leaning down and kissing his forehead. Dean saw the shadows on the woman's face change as she frowned. "You're burning up."

"I know," Dean said miserably, loosing the will to tightly grasp the gun.

"Mommy will make it all better," the voice assured him. "Just go back to sleep."

* * *

It was such a strange dream that grown-up Dean woke up and stared at the ceiling for a minute, unsure of what to make of it. It wasn't enough to keep him awake, though, and by the time the alarm clock blasted out "Tough Guys" by REO Speedwagon, he had forgotten all about it.

 **Your reviews are very appreciated, thanks!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural.**

 **Hello SPN family! Thank you so much for your encouragement in the story – it always makes me happy to know others are reading and enjoying my work. I'm so sorry for the delay. I had every intention of updating sooner but, well, life happened (and binge watching; I'm now in Season 5). I'll try to do better next time and I hope you enjoy the chapter =)**

"So where do we go from here?"

Sam and Dean were in their motel room the next morning. Dean looked at his brother, waiting for an answer.

"We need to figure out what it is we're hunting," replied Sam.

"If we're hunting anything at all."

Sam glared at his brother before opening the case files on the desk in front of him again, hoping they'd provide a clue he missed the day before. None of the pictures of young children lying on autopsy tables inspired him and he closed the files again.

"What do we know?" Dean asked, pacing in front of the TV.

"Eight kids, all dead within seventy-two hours of getting the flu, all of them appeared to have been getting better. And there's that thing with their parents."

"Right." Dean sat on the edge of his bed, facing Sam. "Ian and Nicholas's parents were in the middle of a divorce and Clinton and Julie's dad was a widow. Erin's mom was battling post-partum depression and Jonathan's mother was a single mom."

"Eloise's mother was a workaholic," Sam continued, ticking them off on his fingers. "And Laura said Lori has been taking care of herself ever since her mom remarried."

"All of these kids come from a dysfunctional home."

"So maybe whatever is causing this is targeting the parents rather than the kids," suggested Sam. "It's using the kids as a way to send a message?"

"What's the message? And what could be doing that?"

"A ghost seems most likely."

"But who is it? And how does it have the power to make kids sick and kill them?"

Sam didn't have an answer.

"Okay," Dean said with a loud sigh. He stood up. "We don't know what we're up against but we know what they're after."

Sam realized immediately what they had to do.

"We need to find who it's going to attack next."

* * *

Two hours later, Sam and Dean pulled into the parking lot of the third school on their list of four in the district.

"South Butler Primary School," Sam read from his laptop. "Teaches kindergarten to third grade."

"Let's go," Dean said. Together they walked into the main office.

"Good morning," the secretary smiled at them. "Can I help you?"

"Yes," Sam said. "We're with the CDC, here investigating the Spanish Flu that's been going around. Is there a school nurse we could speak with?"

The secretary showed them to the nurse's office. The nurse – Stephanie was her name – was in the small examination room with a student and Sam and Dean sat in hard plastic chairs to wait. Dean looked around unenthusiastically.

"I always hated the school nurse," he said. Sam raised an eyebrow and looked at him.

"You never went to the school nurse."

"One time, Sammy," Dean held up a finger to emphasize the point. "Last time I ever did something so stupid. From then on, I determined when I was too sick to go to school."

Sam was about to ask another question but the door opened.

"You tell your teacher to keep an eye on that ankle, Joey," Stephanie said, ushering out a boy who looked to be about eight years old. "Come back if the swelling doesn't go down by lunch time."

Stephanie saw Joey out of her office and turned to Sam and Dean.

"Can I help you?" she asked. They flashed their badges.

"CDC, we have a few questions."

Stephanie motioned for them to sit again as she sat behind her desk and waited for them to speak.

"How many children are in this school?" Dean asked.

"A few hundred."

"And how many of the recently deceased have gone here?"

"You mean the children that have died from Spanish Influenza?"

"Yes."

"Ian Pike, Clinton Burgess, and Lori Harmon. The others were at the intermediate elementary or the middle school."

"How long have you worked here?" questioned Sam.

"A few years."

"And in your experience, does this follow the regular pattern of a flu outbreak?"

"Not really," Stephanie admitted. "Normally when the flu comes around, many of the children get sick. I usually have a line-up of kids waiting to be seen or to be picked up by their parents."

"And that's not happening now?"

"No," answered Stephanie. "In a school this size, it's not uncommon to have a few kids home sick each day but besides those few, everyone is happy and healthy. Well," she amended. "Not happy per se. It's hard to explain to the kids what happened to their classmates and why they aren't going to be coming back to school. Some of the older ones get it but most of them are too young."

"Can you tell us who has been home sick the last few days?"

"Of course."

Stephanie moved the mouse to her computer and tapped at the keyboard, her eyes glancing over the screen.

"There are three students home sick today," she said. "Pauline Stemming, Corey Wiersma, and Thomas Lyons."

"We'll need their student files and contact information."

Stephanie nodded and hit a few more keys.

"They're printing in the main office," she said. "Is there anything else I can help you with?"

"Yes," Sam said. "These three students, what do you know about their home life?"

"What do you mean?"

"Do their parents work? Are they both around?"

Stephanie seemed taken aback by the question but she thought for a moment before speaking.

"As far as I know, there is nothing out of the ordinary going on. Pauline and Corey's mothers are both active in the PTA and I don't know the Lyons very well but a friendly young woman picks Thomas up every afternoon. He's always happy to see her."

"Is it his mother?"

"I don't know."

Sam and Dean glanced towards the door as a teacher holding a bucket and guiding a young, blonde-haired girl walked in. Dean wrinkled his nose.

"We'll get out of your way," Sam said quickly as the little girl started gagging. "Thanks for your help."

Sam and Dean quickly left the small office and Dean shuddered.

"Kids," he muttered. "Walking germ factories. I feel like I need a shower."

Sam rolled his eyes.

"You kill monsters for a living. How is a little girl throwing up worse than decapitating a vampire?"

"Memories, Sam. Bad, bad memories."

Sam merely shook his head. They collected the student files from the office printer and returned to the Impala, Sam adding the files to the pile they had already accumulated.

"That makes a total of fifteen children home from school in the district, not including the high school."

"Where do we start?" Dean asked, loosening his tie. Sam paged through his notes.

"If we're working off the theory that this monster is targeting broken families, I'd say with these two."

He held one file out to Dean and kept one for himself.

"Becky Larson," Dean read out loud. "Her sister Kate died last year and the family's not coping well. This is her sixth sick day this year. Okay, I'll pay her a visit. Who do you have?"

"Olivia Sanderson," Sam answered. "Her dad has been diagnosed with a brain tumor and has less than a year to live."

* * *

Dean descended the front steps of the quaint cottage-style house half an hour later, pulling out his phone.

"Hello?" Sam's voice came onto the line.

"It's me. Anything?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary." Sam answered. "Olivia's barely sick but her mom wanted to keep her home as a precaution. The entire family is being careful about exposing their dad to germs."

"What about the family?"

"Doing well given the circumstances. Support groups from their church are helping them and they seem to be at peace with it all."

"Peace my ass," Dean answered. "Nobody's at peace with dying."

"It doesn't matter if we think it's true," Sam pointed out. "As long as they are functioning like a proper family, they're not in danger. What about you? Any luck?"

"No," sighed Dean. "The kid had a bad asthma attack but nothing else."

"What now?"

"We keep working through the files and hope we get lucky."

* * *

By the late afternoon, Dean was not in the best of moods. He'd been to eight houses and encountered, in addition to Becky's asthma, two kids with food poisoning, one with a migraine, one with laryngitis, one with a freshly broken wrist, and twins with the chicken pox. He had seen more barf buckets than he felt comfortable with.

With an air of disdain, he walked up to the ninth house and rang the bell. A young woman with a cheerful smile opened the door behind the screen.

"Mrs. Lyons?" Dean asked.

"No, I'm sorry," the young woman answered. "Mrs. Lyons is away on business. Can I help you?"

"I'm here with the Center for Disease Control," Dean held out the badge. "I understand that Thomas is home sick?"

"Yes," the woman said, her eyebrows coming together in confusion. "What exactly is this about?"

"I'm investigating the Spanish Flu that's been going through town," Dean replied. "May I come in?"

Cora hesitated but held the door open for him.

"Is Mr. Lyons around?" Dean asked, looking around the entry way and down the hall towards the kitchen. "I need to speak with one of Thomas's parents."

"No, he's also gone on business. He and his wife are at a nation-wide conference this week."

"What sort of conference?"

"They own a hotel just outside of the city," said the young woman, her voice increasingly skeptical. "They often travel or spend the night there."

"And you take care of Thomas?"

"I'm Cora, his nanny."

"What can you tell me about his illness?"

"It's nothing serious," Cora said. "He woke up this morning with a headache and said his tummy hurt. He was running a low-grade fever so I kept him home from school but he says he feels better now."

"Did you give him any medicine?"

Cora nodded.

"Children's Tylenol."

"And have you spoken with a doctor?"

"I called Dr. Shepherd but he said it was nothing to be overly concerned about."

"Did you ask him about the Spanish Flu?"

"He said that as long as Thomas isn't congested then he isn't in any danger. I've had the humidifier on in his room all day."

"May I speak with him?"

Cora hesitated again.

"I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important," Dean said and Cora smiled, nodding.

"I'm sorry, of course. His room is upstairs."

Dean followed Cora up the wide staircase and into a room that was decorated with an outer-space theme. Pictures of rocket ships dotted the walls and model planets hung from the ceiling. A little boy was tucked in his bed, watching a movie on a TV in the corner.

"Thomas?" Cora said, coming in. "This is," she turned back to Dean. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name."

"Dean."

"This is Dean," she continued. "He has a few questions for you."

She picked up the remove and paused the movie before moving out of the way. Dean smiled at Thomas and sat on the end of his bed.

"Your room is pretty sweet," Dean said. "Do you want to be an astronaut when you grow up?"

Thomas nodded.

"How old are you?"

"Five."

"When I was your age, I wanted to be a pirate."

It wasn't true but after eight interviews, Dean knew it would be easiest to make Thomas talk if he felt comfortable. Thomas smiled shyly.

"Cora told me that you're not feeling so hot."

Thomas shook his head.

"Is it your head or your … tummy?"

Even though he'd used the word many times that day, it felt foreign and ridiculous coming from his mouth.

"Both."

"Are you coughing?"

"Not very much."

"That's a good sign," Dean smiled as much as he could manage. "Has Cora been taking good care of you?"

"She gave me ice cream after lunch."

"That sounds pretty good."

Thomas nodded.

"Thomas," Dean began carefully. "Can you think really hard about the last few days and tell me if you remember anything strange happening?"

"Like what?"

"Did any of the lights in your bedroom flicker on and off or maybe you got really cold all of a sudden?"

Thomas shook his head.

"No?" Dean asked.

"I'm sorry," Cora interrupted. "But why are you asking him this?"

Dean glanced back at her.

"It's part of a theory we're working on. I know it seems strange but I promise it's important."

Cora nodded but she looked increasingly nervous. Dean knew he didn't have much longer before she would insist he leave. He'd been asked to leave one of the food poisoning cases (no complaints there) and the twins with the chicken pox. He turned back to Thomas.

"What about seeing someone or something in your room?"

"Only Cora and Mommy."

"When did you see your mom?"

"After lunch. I was taking a nap and she came into my room."

"Are you sure, sweetie?" Cora asked. "Mommy isn't home right now, remember? She and Daddy are in Chicago. You spoke to them on the phone this morning."

"It was her," Thomas insisted. "She was wearing a dress which I thought was kinda funny. Mommy always complains when she wears a dress but she didn't this time."

"Did she say anything?" Dean asked.

"No. She kissed my forehead and tucked me in."

"You must have been dreaming, Tommy," said Cora gently. "You were sleeping when I came up to check on you after your ice cream."

"Were you scared when you saw her?" Dean asked, dismissing Cora's statement.

"No, it was Mama."

Dean smiled and patted Thomas's leg through the covers.

"You did a great job, Thomas. Thanks for your help. I hope you feel better soon."

Cora put the movie back on and followed Dean downstairs.

"I'm sorry he wasn't more help," she said.

"You're sure his parents aren't close to home?" Dean asked. "There's no chance that it was his mother?"

"Positive. It was just a dream."

Dean wasn't so sure but he thanked Cora and left the house. As he walked down the street towards the Impala, he suddenly remembered his own dream the night before.

Sam being sick in the hotel and Dean catching it from him.

Mary appearing and tucking him in, kissing his forehead to check his temperature.

"Oh, hell no." Dean muttered, pulling out his phone. "Sammy? Yeah, I think we've got a problem."

 **Reviews are very appreciated, thank you!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural.**

 **Hello SPN Family! Thanks, as always, for your reads/favs/follows/reviews. They always make me smile and these days, a smile is much appreciated. Sorry for the delay in posting – I've been hacking this chapter out all week but I've come down with the flu myself so … yeah, I hope you enjoy the chapter =)**

An hour later, Dean was sitting on the edge of his bed while Sam stood in front of him.

"Let me get this straight," the younger Winchester said. "You're telling me that you had the same dream as Thomas and now you think you're going to die?"

"I don't know, Sam, but it was too much of a coincidence. Maybe all the other kids had dreams, too, and that's what kills them."

"How can a dream kill them?"

"Unless it's not a dream at all."

"What do you mean?"

"Thomas said that he saw his mom, not that he had a dream about her," Dean realized. "What if it's a ghost and these kids just think it's a dream?"

"Do you really think it's possible?"

"Why not?" Dean countered. "The younger ones probably didn't think anything of it and the older ones might be more prone to accepting wacky dreams because they know that strange dreams happen when you've got the flu."

"You seriously think this is a ghost who comes into a sick child's bedroom, kisses his forehead, and then watches him die?"

"You got any better theories?"

"Alright," Sam said, putting his hands up defensively. "Calm down."

"I can't calm down. I've got a one-way ticket to meet my maker."

"You don't fit the pattern. The oldest child has been twelve years old and you're not sick. Not to mention that _you_ definitely dreamt this kissing ghost. You told me you were ten years old."

Sam's reasonable logic didn't penetrate and he sighed.

"Okay, say you're right about this. Who is the ghost?"

"I don't know."

"Why these children?"

"They're already sick," Dean replied. "Thomas said the woman kissed him and tucked him in. I saw the same thing."

"Wait, kissed him where?"

"On the forehead," answered Dean. "Why is that significant?"

"The bruising," Sam said, turning to the stack of coroner's reports on the table. He pulled out the photographs. "All of them have bruises on their face. Doctor Shepherd thought it was because of the Spanish Flu but look," he pointed to Ian Pike's forehead and then at Lori Harmon. "They all have the same bruise on their forehead."

"The kiss," Dean said. He was peering over Sam's shoulder. "Why does she kiss them there?"

Sam gazed out the window, thinking, and a strange smile formed on his lips.

"What?" Dean pressed.

"She was taking care of them," he realized.

"Come again?"

"She was taking care of them," Sam turned to face Dean. "Kissing their forehead, that's how parents check their child's temperature."

"Are you sure?"

"You don't remember Mom or Dad doing it?"

* * *

"Sweetheart?" Mary's gentle voice woke up the sleeping four-year old. She smiled at her son.

"How're you feeling, baby?"

"Sick."

"I know," Mary said, leaning down and kissing Dean's forehead and smoothing back his hair. "Daddy's gone to get you some medicine to help you feel better. Can you eat some soup for me?"

Dean nodded and Mary helped him sit up.

"Good boy," she murmured, setting the tray of tomato-rice soup and saltine crackers on his lap. "It's fixed just the way you like it."

Dean finished the soup which earned him praise from his mother. After she took the tray back to the kitchen, she returned to the living room couch.

"How about a little snuggle time?" she asked and Dean nodded. His mother picked him up and he curled into her lap once she was sitting. She began to hum the only song she'd ever sung to him – "Hey Jude". Dean closed his eyes and leaned against her chest. He was nearly asleep when the front door opened.

"Mary?" John called.

"In here," Mary called back, peering down at Dean. John appeared holding a bag from the pharmacy and sat on the coffee table facing them.

"How's he doing?"

"Still feverish," Mary answered. "But he ate some supper."

John smiled at Dean.

"It's alright, son, this will help you feel better."

He took the children's medicine out of the box and poured some of the bright red liquid into the plastic cup.

"Down the hatch," he said but Dean shook his head. John raised an eyebrow. "Come on, Dean."

Dean hesitated but reached out and took the cup. He put it to his lips and swallowed the medicine, making a face as he did.

"That's my good soldier," John said. "What do you say we get you to bed?"

* * *

"Okay," Dean agreed. "She checks their temperature and she tucks them in. But if she's taking care of them, why do they die?"

"Maybe the kiss is cursed," suggested Sam.

"Then she's not exactly in line for the mother of the year award," said Dean. "Is she picking these kids to conceal her kills? If they're already sick, it would at least make it seem more plausible for them to die so suddenly."

"I don't think so," Sam said thoughtfully. "If she wanted to kill them, there are easier ways. What if," he continued. "She picks these children because their own mothers aren't taking care of them?"

"Makes sense," Dean realized. "The divorced parents, the widower, the abusive mothers, the workaholics. None of them are taking care of their children so she steps in when she thinks the kids need a mother's care the most."

"When they're sick," supplied Sam and Dean nodded. "Okay, so that solves the why, what about the who? And more importantly, how do we stop her?"

Dean took his phone out of his pocket and flipped it open.

"Who are you calling?" Sam asked.

"Cora," Dean answered, searching the desk for the files from the school. "She needs to get Thomas to the hospital. If the ghost has kissed him, he's going to die within the next day."

Once Dean had finished the call, Sam looked critically at his brother.

"What?" Dean asked.

"Do you think maybe you should go to the hospital? After all, you were kissed too."

"I'm fine."

"But you won't be in a few hours. You're going to get sick, Dean."

"And I'll deal with it then. If what we think is true, it doesn't matter where I am or what medicine I do or don't have. I'll die from Spanish Flu regardless so I may as well be helping you figure out who this ghost is and how we gank her."

"You'll let me know when you start feeling sick?"

Dean looked into Sam's puppy dog eyes.

"Yeah, of course, Sammy."

Sam sighed and opened his laptop. His brother was lying, of course. Dean wouldn't complain and he certainly wouldn't let Sam take care of him. He barely let Sam drive; there was no way he'd allow his brother to nurse him back to health.

For the next half hour, the room was quiet as Sam researched and Dean looked over the family files, searching for some sort of connection between the victims.

"This is useless," Dean said, sitting back in his chair. "In a town this small, everybody knows everybody, dead or alive. This ghost could be a hundred different women and most of these parents would know her, or at least know _of_ her."

"Hmm." Was all Sam replied and Dean raised an eyebrow.

"Anything good?" he asked. Sam finished the paragraph he was reading before looking up.

"No," he said flatly. "But like you said, you're on a one-way ticket to the other side and you refuse to go to the hospital so I'm doing everything I can to figure out who this ghost is so I don't have to watch you die."

Dean recognized that he'd hit a sore spot. This wasn't the first time the issue had come up.

"Fine," he said. "I'm going to get us some dinner. You want anything special?"

"No."

Dean shrugged on his coat. The cool evening air was refreshing after the stuffy hotel room and Dean began to walk down the main street. As he looked for a diner that would do take-out, he began to reflect on the situation.

He wasn't thrilled with it, of course. He didn't want to die. He didn't want his face to turn blue and to be bleeding from his ears and nose. He certainly didn't want to – as the doctor had said – drown in his own sputum.

But he had a bigger question playing on his mind, something that Sam had pointed out. Jonathan Moore had been the oldest victim at twelve. Dean was twenty-seven. Further, Dean _had_ dreamt the ghost. Sam was right: he didn't exactly fit the pattern.

If the ghost was picking children whose parents didn't take care of them, Dean had no problem believing he would appear on her radar. Sam obviously hadn't been taken care of by Mary or John, either, but Dean had looked after his brother. He was there when Sammy was sick or hurt or had a bad dream. He was the one who stayed up with his brother when he had the chicken pox and the one who endlessly read books on the bathroom floor when Sam had the stomach flu.

Was Dean's past so void of parental love and affection that the ghost felt it was necessary to pay him, grown-up Dean, a visit via a dream? Did he lack a mother's love that desperately?

Dean didn't like it but he knew the answer was yes. He never once regretted taking care of Sam but on more than one occasion he had wished that someone was there to take care of him. Maybe he hadn't realized it at the time but the person he longed to be there was Mary.

Dean's mind was preoccupied as he entered the local family restaurant and stepped up to the till.

"What can I get you?" the pleasant old lady, whose name tag read Doris, asked. Dean glanced at the menu.

"Bacon cheeseburger and fries, plus a house salad with a side of whole grain rice and veggies."

"For here or to go?"

"To go, please."

Dean paid and Doris said it would be about a ten-minute wait. Dean sank into one of the hard vinyl chairs and rubbed his temples. His head was beginning to hurt and he closed his eyes.

The next thing he knew, Doris was shaking his shoulder. Her eyes were full of concern.

"Are you alright, dear?" she asked and Dean quickly looked around to see if anyone else had seen him sleeping.

"Fine," lied Dean.

"Are you sure?" Doris pressed. "You're awfully pale."

"I'm fine," Dean repeated, noticing the bag in her hand. "Is that our food?"

"Yes," Doris held it out to him. "You take care of yourself. Get some rest, understand?"

"Yes, Ma'am," Dean said with a mock, two-finger salute. He left the restaurant and started walking back to the motel. The breeze that had felt refreshing twenty minutes ago now made him shiver and do up his jacket.

Across the street he spotted a pharmacy. With a resigning sigh, Dean crossed the road and went inside.

"Can I help you?" the cashier asked.

"Uh, yeah, I guess. Cold and flu meds?"

"Against the back wall."

"Thanks."

The pharmacy wasn't very big and Dean quickly collected the basic necessities: medication for cold and flu, muscle relaxants, decongestants, antacids, and Tylenol. He went to the next aisle and tossed Kleenex, a thermometer, and a hot water bottle in his basket. The last aisle yielded tea and some sort of lemon flavoured drink that Bobby had once forced down his throat. It was disguising but Dean remembered that it had worked.

"Stocking up for cold and flu season?" the cashier asked as she rang everything through.

"Yeah, we'll go with that."

Dean wasn't feeling the small talk – he was feeling worse by the minute and wanted nothing more than to be in bed, even if that meant Sam was going to hover – and paid quickly. He practically ran the rest of the way to the motel and was relieved to step inside their room.

"What took you so long?" Sam asked before looking up. His eyes grew wide. "You look like hell."

"Don't sugar coat it, Sam," Dean muttered, tossing the pharmacy bag onto the chair and setting the food on the table. "Eat before it gets cold."

Sam watched Dean shuffle to his bed and sit down, leaning forward on his elbows.

"Dean?"

"What?"

"You going to tell me what's wrong?"

Dean raised his head.

"You went to an Ivy-league school and you can't figure it out?"

Sam rolled his eyes.

"Obviously I can see you're sick," he said. "But what exactly is the matter?"

"You mean 'where does it hurt'?"

"Yeah."

Dean began unlacing his boots.

"Eat your dinner, Sammy."

Sam sighed.

"Dean, please don't do this."

"Do what?"

"Treat me like I'm a little kid. I want to help you."

"I don't need help. I'm going to take a shower, take some meds, and go to sleep. There's nothing you can do."

"Meds?"

Dean, who had stood and was ruffling around in his duffel bag, pointed to the bag on the chair.

"I'm not a complete idiot, Sam. I went to the pharmacy."

Sam raised an eyebrow. Once Dean had shut himself in the bathroom, Sam picked up the bag and began rooting through it. Though he was surprised, he was pleasantly impressed by the selection. Impressed and concerned. It appeared that Dean was getting reading for a battle in his body that would rival Armageddon.

The water turned off and Dean emerged in sweat pants and a t-shirt.

"What do you want?" Sam asked.

"Tylenol and cold and flu."

"You don't need to take both. The cold and flu medication has acetaminophen in it."

"Whatever, Sam."

Dean accepted the two pills from Sam, swallowed them dry, and laid down.

"Thanks," he muttered, closing his eyes and rubbing his forehead with his fingertips. Sam was still standing in front of him with arms crossed.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer."

Sam sighed.

"Can I do anything?"

"Stop hovering."

Sam stared at Dean for a second longer and then nodded.

"Fine," he said. "I'm here if you need me."

Sam returned to his laptop and Dean sighed. He knew that Sam just wanted to help but it went against his nature. Dean had always been the big brother and it was his job to take care of Sam, not the other way around. Sam, on the other hand, was well aware of Dean's take on their relationship but he wasn't a kid anymore. He didn't need Dean to play the fearless big brother.

The motel room was quiet for the next hour. Sam continued his research and Dean slept. The silence was broken by a deep, throaty cough.

Dean coughed himself awake and propped himself up on his elbow to help clear his airway.

"You okay?" Sam asked and Dean nodded, still coughing. Sam got up and walked to the edge of the bed.

"Here," he said, holding out a water bottle. Dean broke the seal and took a long drink.

"Thanks," he murmured, trying to calm his racing heart. He took a few deep breaths and fell back onto the bed. "I feel like crap on toast."

"If it's any consolation, you look like crap. On toast," he added, hoping to make Dean smile. In return, Dean glared at his brother.

"Not helping, Sammy."

"Wasn't trying to," Sam said angrily before he could stop himself. "Because heaven forbid I ever help the almighty, capable Dean Winchester."

He returned to the desk.

"Sam," Dean sighed, rubbing his eyes.

"Forget it, it's fine." Sam replied. "Go back to sleep."

 **A review is always appreciated, thank you!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural (further disclaimers at the bottom to avoid spoilers).**

 **Hi everyone! I hope you're all doing well. Thank you, as always, for your continued interest in the story and your patience for an update. Life continues to be busy but I managed to find time for the next chapter! I hope you enjoy it =)**

Sam tried not to let the fact that Dean was potentially dying distract him as he did his research. His brother had fallen asleep again quickly and after two hours of staring at the case files, Sam sat back in his chair and glanced at Dean. The older Winchester looked and sounded terrible. His cheeks were flushed and Sam could hear his congestion from across the room.

He glanced at his watch. It had been just over four hours since Dean had taken the medication and Sam toyed with the idea of waking him up to take another dose. Part of him was thinking it would be pointless; if Dean had Spanish Flu, no medication would stop the inevitable. But another part of him wanted to take care of his brother, confident that he would solve the case before Dean's time was up. When that was, Sam didn't know. The children who had died had been sick for at least a few days before they'd been kissed by their ghost but the clock really started ticking the moment lips met forehead. For Dean, that had been almost twenty-four hours ago and Sam knew that meant his brother's time was limited.

Sam stood up to stretch – he had no intention of going to bed but he needed a break to keep focused – and Dean groaned.

"Sammy?" he muttered.

"Yeah?"

"Is there any water?"

Dean coughed roughly as he rolled from his stomach to his back. Sam found a fresh water bottle and sat on the edge of the bed while Dean continued to cough, propping himself up on his elbow. The fit lasted for a good two minutes and Dean reached for a Kleenex and held it to his mouth. He made a horrible retching noise before the coughing finally stopped. Breathing hard, Dean glanced into the Kleenex and saw bright spots of blood.

"That's not good," he said under his breath, crumpling the tissue and tossing it aside. Sam held out the water bottle. "Thanks."

Dean cracked the seal and drank half of it.

"Find anything yet?"

Sam shook his head.

"I'll keep working on it," he promised. "But let's get you taken care of first."

It went against everything Dean had not to snap at his brother that he didn't need help but it was a combination of exhaustion and realization that he'd hurt Sam's feelings earlier that stopped him.

"Do you want to take some more medication?" Sam asked and Dean nodded. Sam hurried to where the pharmacy bag was and rooted through the different boxes.

"How high do you think your fever is?" he asked, glancing up from the back of a box of decongestant.

"There's a thermometer in the bag," Dean answered. Surprised that Dean had bought one and was using it voluntarily, Sam took the thermometer out of the box and turned it on. He tossed it to Dean, who put it in his mouth. It didn't take long to beep and Sam glanced over his shoulder as Dean squinted to read the small screen. It took him so long that Sam walked over and took it from him.

"One hundred and one point two," Sam said, raising an eyebrow.

"Shut up," Dean muttered, rubbing his eyes. "I've got a killer headache."

Recognizing his brother felt terrible, Sam didn't comment and returned to the table.

"Okay," he said a moment later. "You can take two of the decongestants and three ibuprofens."

"Thought you said I didn't need to take both," muttered Dean, holding out his hand as Sam popped the pills from their packaging.

"That was Tylenol," Sam answered. "It's in the decongestant. Ibuprofen is from a different pharmaceutical family, it can be taken in addition to the Tylenol."

"Whatever you say, House."

Dean swallowed the pills and drank the rest of the water bottle.

"You need anything else?"

"No."

"Something to eat?"

"Definitely not." Dean shimmied down in the bed and lay on his side. Almost immediately he began coughing and continued to do so until he was forced upright again.

"You probably shouldn't lie flat," Sam said. "Your lungs will fill up."

"They're going to do that anyways."

"Well, you can at least slow the process down. Here."

Sam pulled the pillows from his own bed and stacked them behind Dean, who leaned against them.

"Good?" he asked and Dean nodded.

"Good," Sam reaffirmed. "Try to get some sleep."

"All I'm doing is sleeping."

"Fine, then stay awake and help me."

Sam returned to the desk and glanced at the pile of case files with a look of disdain before opening his laptop.

"What are you looking at?"

"Seeing as I've gone through all the case files and found no one who could be our ghost, I'm going to look into the town history. Maybe there's a local legend or something."

"Laura already said there's been nothing like this before."

"That she can remember," amended Sam. "Spanish Flu hasn't been epidemic in decades. Maybe there's a history of it here."

Dean didn't comment and Sam began reading. He looked over at his brother five minutes later and wasn't at all surprised to find him fast asleep, his mouth hanging open. Shaking his head, Sam turned back to the laptop.

* * *

Sam's first results yielded nothing but Wikipedia pages and general history. He read about the founding of the town in 1832 and about its industries and notable citizens. Not exactly case-breaking material. He opened a new search engine and typed in "Saxonburg Spanish Influenza" and hit the enter key.

At first glance, the only thing those keywords brought up was recent news articles about the deaths of the children. He found the article by Julia and several others from rival papers who had picked up the story. Sam also found the obituaries of the children who had already died, as well as a public health advisory issued by Doctor Shepherd.

Sam was about to close out the search engine when the last link on the page caught his eye: "Winfield Township's 1918 Influenza Mass Grave Site". He clicked on it. His mood changed drastically after reading the first two paragraphs.

"Dean!" he exclaimed, picking up the laptop and taking it to the edge of Dean's bed. "Dean, wake up."

Dean's head bobbed as he awoke.

"'m awake," he slurred.

"Listen to this," Sam pressed. "In 1918, the town had a massive Spanish flu epidemic. The townspeople couldn't cope with the number of bodies so they dug a mass grave outside of town. No one knows how many bodies were buried there."

He paused, frowning.

"What?" Dean asked, trying to focus on his brother. His vision was swimming.

"The grave had traditional Catholic burial rights administered in 1918 and the mass grave was commemorated with a permanent cross in 2002," said Sam, eyes moving rapidly as he continued reading the article. "There was a ceremony and the grave was blessed a second time by two Greek Catholic priests."

Sam closed the computer in frustration.

"Which means," he continued. "None of the Spanish flu victims from 1918 are our ghost. The religious ceremonies would have put any vengeful spirits at peace."

"Why would a vengeful spirit from 1918 come back and kill innocent children?" Dean asked. "Even in a town this small there's no way the ghost could have personal connections to all of them."

"Maybe the ghost was unhappy about how she died or was buried. It's as reasonable an explanation as we ever have for why ghosts come back to kill people." He paused and then continued. "It could explain how these kids actually got Spanish flu, though."

"How do you mean? The kids were all sick before ghosty planted one on them."

"But maybe they didn't have Spanish flu," Sam said, the realization dawning on him. "Kids get sick all the time, that's normal. What if Ian Pike and all the kids after him had just been sick with a cold or the flu at first?"

"And the ghost realized they weren't be taken care of by their mothers and intervened." Dean, despite the fever and fuzzy vision, had enough senses to reach the same conclusion Sam had.

"Right," Sam agreed. "But if the ghost had died from Spanish flu, maybe she passed it onto them."

"Can ghosts be contagious?"

Sam shrugged.

"Nothing says they couldn't be," he answered. "But if that's the case, it means we're not looking at a vengeful spirit at all. These aren't attacks; they're unintended consequences of an act of kindness."

"That's all great," Dean said. "But it doesn't seem possible given the whole blessed grave situation."

Sam opened the laptop again and scanned the article a second time.

"Not necessarily," he said. "There's one mass grave that's known but the article says no one knows how many mass graves there were before the virus ran its course in 1919. There might be other graves that were never blessed by the priests."

Dean began to cough and Sam looked up, concerned.

"You okay?"

Dean nodded, still coughing. Sam didn't look convinced and with good reason. The next thing he knew, Dean was scrambling to escape his covers. Sam hurriedly pulled them down, barely managing to stop his laptop from falling to the floor, and Dean staggered to the bathroom sink. He leaned over it and threw up. Sam came from behind him and put his hand on Dean's heaving shoulder. Glancing into the sink, he was concerned when he saw a dark red blood clot.

"Done?" he asked and Dean, who had stopped coughing, nodded. He spit one more time and turned the tap on, washing away the evidence. He rinsed his mouth out and straightened up.

"How do you find these unmarked graves?" he asked coarsely.

"I'll figure it out." Sam said. "You need to sleep."

Dean was feeling sick enough that he didn't protest as Sam tucked the covers around him again.

"Drink," instructed Sam, handing Dean another water bottle. Dean did as he was told, though he didn't drink nearly as much this time, and groaned after handing the bottle back to Sam.

"Sleep," Sam said, worry creeping into the one syllable word. Dean closed his eyes and Sam picked up his computer again. He read the article a third time and clicked through some of the links on the webpage. The commemoration, he learned, had been sponsored through the Saxonburg Area Library.

That was at least somewhere to start.

Sam opened up the e-catalogue for the library and began doing keyword searches. It took him a while to figure out how the library was catalogued, especially the primary archives, but in the end he found what he hoped would be the answer: the diary of Father O'Callahan, the priest who had organized the 1918 mass grave.

Sam glanced at his watch. It was nearly midnight and obviously the library was closed. The webpage indicated it would open at nine o'clock the next morning. Sam didn't think twice about what he had to do.

The first thing was to make sure Dean would be okay while he was gone. His brother finally seemed to have fallen into a deep sleep and was snoring loudly. He looked horridly uncomfortable propped up the way he was but Sam didn't want to wake him, though he couldn't resist checking Dean's temperature.

Gently pressing the back of his hand against Dean's forehead, Sam frowned. Dean was seriously burning up and though Sam knew this was characteristic of Spanish flu, it was worrisome nonetheless. He wet one of the facecloths from the bathroom and draped it across Dean's forehead. Dean mumbled something under his breath – Sam swore he heard the word "pie" – but he didn't wake up. Sam scribbled a note telling Dean where he was and set it underneath his phone and gun on the bedside table.

Once Dean was taken care of, Sam quickly packed up his laptop bag, slipped on his coat, and left the motel room.

* * *

It wasn't a long walk to the library and Sam peered through the glass door. It was a basic building that didn't appear to have any alarm system and Sam easily picked the lock. Once inside, he got to work. Using his flashlight, he explored the library until he found the archive collection. He hadn't expected it to be stored anywhere privately – the library was an old, converted Victorian home – and Sam found the diary on the shelves of the local history collection.

For the next half hour, he read the diary until he found what he was looking for.

 _November 3, 1918_

 _Commissioned a cross from Joseph Baldauf for the mass grave of influenza victims._

The entry continued, though nothing more was said about the mass grave. The next entry to mention it was two days later.

 _November 5, 1918_

 _Mr. Baldauf and Mr. McCrea have completed the cross. They made it out of railway ties. It seems a shame that so many graves will be marked by so humble a cross but I suppose that's who these people were. Immigrants, humble and far from home, who never got to see the prosperity they worked so hard far. In a sense it feels fitting that their graves are marked by something so essential to their work, their reason for being here in the first place._

 _The burial ceremony was short, nothing more than blessing the ground where they now lie. Mr. McCrea, Mr. Bauldauf, and his grandson Harry Snyder were the only ones in attendance. It may have been a small act of kindness on our parts but at least these souls can now lie in peace_.

Sam sighed. That didn't tell him anything he didn't already know. Still, he was determined and continued reading in hopes that the good Father would mention more graves later on. His persistence was well rewarded.

 _December 1, 1918_

 _Commissioned another cross from Mr. Bauldauf. This one to be placed upon the grave of Mrs. Randolph, one hundred paces east of the railway cross._

The diary mentioned nothing more about Mrs. Randolph. Keeping his momentum, Sam opened his computer and began searching for her on the internet but it wasn't much to go on. Frustrated, he left his computer and began looking through the other archival material in the collection, hoping to find a more detailed source. The only thing he came up with was a locally published book that was a collection of newspaper clippings that detailed the epidemic in Saxonburg.

Sam began flipping through it and realized it contained obituaries. He found an article about the mass grave and that it had been blessed by Father O'Callahan but there was no list of names; too many had died to compile accurate mortality records. That was alright, Sam realized. He wasn't looking for a woman buried in the mass grave but rather one buried about six weeks later. He flipped a few pages in the book and found an obituary for a Mrs. Kathleen Randolph.

It was very short but it told Sam everything he needed.

 _Randolph, Kathleen, Mrs. Nee O'Sullivan. Born 1890 in Cork, Ireland, died December 1, 1918 in Saxonburg, PA. Preceded in death by husband Charles Randolph (died serving with 110_ _th_ _Infantry Division at the Battle of Chateau-Thierry) and sons Walter (aged 5) and Christopher (aged 1), both from Spanish Influenza. F. O'C._

F. O'C. Father O'Callahan must have placed the obituary, Sam realized. He read it several more times and the details began falling into place.

Kathleen Randolph had lost her two sons to Spanish flu. Walter and Christopher were nearly the same age as Ian and Nicholas Pike, the first victims. Unable to care for her own children, Kathleen had come back as a ghost to fulfill her motherly duties with children whose own mothers she judged to be failing them. Sam wondered why Father O'Callahan hadn't blessed her grave as well. He had commissioned a cross for her and placed an obituary in the newspaper, which meant she meant something to him, but the diary didn't mention anything about presiding over her grave. Sam assumed that meant she was never put to rest.

Father O'Callahan's journal said the cross commissioned for her grave was to be placed one hundred paces to the east of the cross marking the mass grave, which meant Sam knew where he could exhume her bones and put an end to all of this. Filled with excitement at his breakthrough, Sam quickly put the books back and left the library.

"Dean!" he exclaimed, letting himself into the room and flipping the lock behind him. "Dean, wake up!"

He dropped his bag in the chair and unzipped his coat. When he finally looked at Dean's bed, his smile faded.

"Dean?" he asked, rushing over. He shook his brother roughly. "Dean!"

 **Further disclaimer: The website that Sam finds actually exists (you can google it!), as does the mass grave. Father O'Callahan was a real priest and the men he commissioned the cross from are also real. The grave was made a historical landmark and commemorated in 2002 through the work of local historians and a women's club. Kathleen Randolph and her story are fictional, though, as is Father O'Callahan's journal.**

 **A review is always appreciated, thank you! Also keep your eye out for a few one-shot Supernatural stories I have swirling around up there …**


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural.**

 **Hi, SPN Family! I hope you're all doing well and, if it's springtime where you are, hopefully you're having more success in the warmth and sunshine than us poor Montrealers. Thank you, as always, for your continued support for the story. Enjoy chapter 6!**

 **p.s. – minor side note, I found more information about the epidemic in Saxonburg so I've changed the dates of the diary entries in Chapter 5 to be more accurate. Very little impact on the story but as a historian, I couldn't not fix it. Cheers!**

"Dean!" Sam repeated, shaking his brother roughly. He tapped Dean's right cheek only to have Dean's head roll lazily to the left.

"Shit," Sam muttered under his breath, letting Dean's head fall back onto the pillow. Sam went into the bathroom and got a face cloth wet under the tap, not bothering to wring it out. He returned to the bed and slapped the cloth unceremoniously on Dean's forehead. He left it there while he pulled the covers back, tossing them to the side.

"Come on, man," Sam said. "Wake up."

Dean didn't reply and Sam picked the thermometer up from the bedside table. He stuck it under Dean's tongue and held it there awkwardly until it beeped.

"One hundred and three point seven," Sam read, tossing the thermometer back onto the table. "Great."

He peered at Dean again. One hundred and three (always round down, Sam thought) wasn't enough to warrant a trip to the hospital. The brothers avoided hospital insurance scams as much as they could and besides, Dr. Shepherd or anyone else could do nothing to help in the long run.

His discovery at the library forgotten for the time being, Sam took off his unzipped coat and went back to the bathroom. He wet two more facecloths and draped them over Dean's bare feet. With a deep sigh, he realized there wasn't anything else he could do apart from wait, hope, and pray.

* * *

It was longest two hours Sam had ever experienced. It was worse than sitting his SAT exams. He pulled one of the creaky desk chairs next to the bed and sat hunched over, his elbows resting on his knees, as his foot bounced nervously. Every few minutes he repositioned the cloths and occasionally rewet them.

Finally – _finally_ – Dean stirred.

"Dean?" Sam said, instantly moving from the chair to the edge of the mattress. "Dean, can you hear me?"

Dean began to cough, though his eyes were still closed.

"It's alright, man, just breathe," Sam said, sliding his hand behind Dean to elevate him a little bit. Dean kept coughing and Sam could hear the fluid rattling Dean's chest. Sam put more effort into getting Dean into a sitting position so he wouldn't choke. The cloth on his forehead fell into his lap as Dean leaned forward, limp in Sam's arms.

"Dean? Dean, wake up," Sam said, his arms beginning to quiver under Dean's dead weight. In-between the coughs, he heard his name.

"Sammy … can't … breathe …"

"I know, Dean, just keep coughing. It will pass."

And it eventually did, though by the end Dean had coughed so hard he vomited. Preoccupied with holding Dean up, Sam hadn't been able to do anything about it except be surprised at the complete lack of disgust he felt as puke dripped down his forearm.

"Dean?" Sam asked as soon as there was a moment of silence. Dean's eyes were open and he weakly smiled at his brother.

"You can let go now," he said and Sam smiled back.

"Right, sorry."

He pulled his arms back and Dean managed to hold himself upright.

"What happened?" he asked, his voice barely audible. "What time is it?"

Sam glanced at his watch.

"Nearly five. I got back from the library and you were –"

"You went to the library in the middle of the night?" Dean interrupted and Sam nodded.

"I found who our ghost is."

"Who?"

"Drink something first," Sam insisted, leaving the bed and getting a water bottle from the table by the door. He handed it to Dean, who cracked the seal and drank half of it.

"Who's the ghost?"

Sam, who had wet the last clean facecloth in the bathroom, handed it to Dean and settled back in the chair, cleaning his arm with a wad of toilet paper. Dean carefully leaned back against the headboard, wiping his mouth and face with the facecloth.

"Her name is Kathleen Randolph. She was an Irish immigrant and her two sons died of Spanish Flu. They're buried in the mass grave."

"And I take it she isn't?"

"No," Sam answered. "She died from the flu about four weeks later. Her grave is nearby."

"What are you still doing here?" Dean demanded. "Go take care of her."

"I was going to," answered Sam. "But when I came back, you were in bad shape, man. Your temperature was almost one hundred and four."

"How long was I out?"

"A few hours," Sam replied.

"So go now, before dawn. You won't be able to salt and burn the bones in broad daylight."

"I can't leave you like this."

"You don't have a choice, Sammy. If the other victims are anything to go by, I won't last till nightfall so there's no point in waiting. Go."

Sam hesitated.

"Seriously, you're wasting time."

"Don't go back to sleep."

"I'll do my best." Dean promised. " _Go_."

"Fine," Sam said, standing up. He picked up his coat and the keys to the Impala. "Take some more of these," he added, tossing the box of medication back to the Dean. "And keep drinking."

"Sam." Dean said in an exasperated tone that sounded just like John.

"Call if something happens."

"Like if I die?"

"Yeah, something like that warrants a call." Sam had his hand on the doorknob and glanced at Dean one more time.

"Don't make me kick your ass out the door," Dean threatened. Sam nodded and left the hotel room, sending up a quick prayer that his brother would still be alive when he got back. Dean sighed, letting his eyes slide closed but he forced them open. He needed to stay awake. Sam had told him to stay awake.

* * *

Sam didn't care that he was speeding as his foot pressed down on the accelerator. The Impala sped down the road that led out of town towards the mass grave. It didn't take Sam long to reach the historical site that was identified by the granite cross and placard. Sam pulled off on the side of the road and glanced around. The sun was up now but the road was pretty quiet. Still, he knew he had to work quickly.

Taking a shovel and the army green duffel from the trunk, Sam crossed the road to the graveyard. He stopped at the granite cross and glanced towards the sun. Orienting himself towards it, he began counting out one hundred paces, checking every few steps to make sure his course was still true.

After one hundred paces, Sam dropped the duffel bag containing the salt and lighter fluid and pushed the shovel into the ground. It was nerve-wracking digging without any clear indication that this was the right spot. He had never actually confirmed that the granite cross was placed exactly where the wooden one had been. He didn't know if Kathleen would be in a coffin or not – his research on Spanish Flu had indicated many towns had run out of coffins due to the high number of victims – but he hoped that Father O'Callahan had cared enough about her to put her in a box. Otherwise he could spend hours trying to piece together a skeleton and hoping it was all of her. Sam also didn't know how deep Kathleen would be buried. It had been winter when she died which meant the ground had been frozen; he hoped that meant she wouldn't be below the frost line.

Sam continued to dig. He lost track of time, though he did peel off his coat as the sun rose higher in the sky and he began to sweat.

He was beginning to give up hope when his shovel made the distinct noise of coming into contact with something other than dirt. He pushed the dirt aside and was relieved to unearth a wooden box. He cleared away the rest of the dirt and found a make-shift coffin, which he cracked open with the tip of the shovel. And there she was.

"You have no idea how happy I am to see you," Sam told her, tossing the shovel onto the grass and taking out the salt. "I know you aren't trying to hurt people," he continued, emptying the box over her. "And I know what happened to your children. It wasn't your fault," he assured her, moving from salt to the lighter fluid.

After Sam soaked her bones, he smiled at her.

"I hope you rest in peace, Kathleen."

Striking the matches, Sam dropped them onto the body and watched the bones go up in flames. There used to be a certain degree of satisfaction in watching bones burn but Sam had experienced enough hunts where burning the bones had proved ineffective that he was now only cautiously optimistic, even more so now that the stakes were so high.

While he waited for the flames to die down, he pulled out his phone.

* * *

Dean jolted awake when his phone rang. He had been fighting sleep for the better part of two hours and had fallen into a pattern of letting his eyes slide closed before he jerked awake when his head lulled to the side.

"Sam?" he asked, answering the phone. "Is it done?"

"She's burning now," Sam answered. "How do you feel?"

"Same as I did a few hours ago," Dean replied.

"Does that mean it didn't work?" asked Sam, his heart sinking as he watched the flames hungrily consume the fluid-soaked bones.

"I don't know," admitted Dean. "Maybe, maybe not. The only thing we can do is wait it out. If no other kids get sick, then it worked."

"But what about you?"

"What about me?"

"You're still sick."

Dean shrugged, even though Sam couldn't see him. "The kiss is what infected me; the germs don't leave just because their source is gone."

"So all we have to do now is make sure you pull through this."

"Preferably." Dean yawned and Sam heard it.

"Well, listen, I'll be at least another half an hour here but then I'll be back. Try to stay awake a little while longer if you can."

"I'll do my best."

"I know. Just … hang in there, okay?"

Dean smiled.

"Just for you, Sammy."

* * *

Sam waited for the flames to die down before filling in the grave. He tossed his supplies back into the trunk and drove back into town, this time obeying the speed limit. Sam was surprised to see it was nearly nine o'clock already. He'd been up all night but he didn't feel tired. He was too anxious about Dean.

Sam unlocked the motel room and the top-most layer of anxiety disappeared as soon as he saw Dean still alive.

"How you doing?" he asked, taking off his coat and kicking off his shoes.

"Honestly," Dean said, shimmying down so he was lying flat. "I'm more than ready for some sleep."

As ready as he was, Dean's body would not permit him to sleep flat on his back. Sam hadn't even crossed the room before Dean was coughing, propping himself up on his elbow. Sam raised an eyebrow at his brother.

"Stop looking at me that way," Dean muttered, sitting all the way up and leaning forward. He forced a few deep breathes to calm the cough.

"Like what?"

"Like I'm sick."

Sam sighed.

"Dude, you've got to let this go. You _are_ sick so let me take care of you. It's what brothers are for."

Dean sighed, knowing he didn't have much of a choice in the matter.

"Fine," he said. "At least make yourself useful and find a way I can sleep without coughing up a lung."

It wasn't much of an apology or even an invitation to help but Sam took what he could get. He collected all the pillows – they had all been on Dean's bed earlier but over the hours they had been tossed to the ground by a restless, fever-induced sleep and violent coughing fits – and propped them one on top of the other.

"How's that?" Sam asked and Dean leaned back. Sam could tell his brother wasn't comfortable by any means but he didn't complain about it.

"Before you go to sleep," said Sam, noting Dean's eyes were already closed. With a great effort, Dean opened them again.

"What?"

Sam didn't even bother to ask Dean to open his mouth and instead stuck the thermometer in-between his lips roughly.

"Hey! Ow!" Dean protested, reaching up to remove the thermometer.

"Leave it," Sam said sternly. "Under your tongue."

Dean glared at Sam but left the thermometer there. Sam glanced at his watch and then retrieved the pharmacy bag Dean had gotten the day before. Sitting in the chair that was still by the bed, he glanced through the contents more thoroughly than he had earlier and decided on the best course of treatment for his brother.

The thermometer beeped and Sam reached over, pulling it from Dean's mouth.

"Do you think you can take some pills?"

"Oh, you're deciding to ask me now? That's nice."

Sam rolled his eyes.

"Sorry," he apologized in a patronizing tone. "Can you take the pills or not?"

"Yeah, fine."

Sam handed Dean the pills and the half-empty bottle of water from the bedside table. A look of panic crossed Dean's face when one of them got stuck on the way down but the crisis was adverted by drinking the rest of the water bottle in rapid succession. Dean crunched the bottle and tossed it across the room.

"That was the last one," Sam noted. "I'll make a grocery run in a little while. I don't suppose you're hungry?"

Dean shook his head.

"Not in the slightest," he said. "Can I go to sleep now?"

Despite being angry a few minutes ago, Dean sounded much more broken than Sam had ever heard his brother sound and he nodded.

"I'll be here if you need anything."

Sam pulled the covers up for Dean who, miraculously, didn't swat his hands away and it took less than five minutes for Dean to be asleep.

The younger Winchester took a shower and dressed in clean clothes. His stomach growled but the only food in the room was Dean's soggy, cold bacon cheeseburger from the night before. Sam glanced uncertainly at Dean. His brother looked a little better – the medication seemed to be working – and he felt confident enough to make a quick run to the store.

* * *

He was putting a couple of bottles of Gatorade into his basket when he heard a voice say, "Doctor?"

Sam looked up to see Doctor Shepherd coming towards him, smiling brightly. It took a few seconds longer than usual for Sam to realize that he'd introduced himself as Doctor Cummings to the good doctor a few days earlier. He smiled back, shifting the basket from his right to his left hand so he could shake Doctor Shepherd's outstretched hand.

"Good to see you again," Doctor Shepherd said. "I was going to call you when I got to my office this afternoon."

"Is there any news?" Sam asked.

"One of the patients in our pediatric ICU," said Doctor Shepherd. "Thomas Lyons, his nanny said your partner directed her to take him to hospital?"

"Yes?"

"He's turned a corner," Doctor Shepherd looked jubilant and relieved. "At first it looked like he was going to go the same way as the others but this morning he started responding to treatment. He's going to be fine."

"That's wonderful," Sam said. "My partner and I were planning on coming by today to tell you that the CDC has decided that the immediate threat has been reduced and we're closing the investigation."

"Are you stocking up for the trip home?" Doctor Shepherd asked, peering down into Sam's basket. He saw the Gatorade and water bottles but also some bread and peanut butter, a bag of grapes, a few apples, a cucumber, a bag of baby carrots, and a pie.

"Uh, no, not exactly," Sam said with a flustered laugh. "My partner's managed to come down with something so we'll be here a few more days. I'm hoping I can get him to eat something – the pie is a reward."

"Well, I'm sure you've got him well looked after," the real doctor said. "But if you need anything, please don't hesitate to call me. I'd be happy to drop in and check on him."

Knowing Dean would never forgive him for this, Sam spoke.

"Actually, if you don't mind, that would be much appreciated. Whatever he's got has really settled into his chest. I wouldn't be surprised if he needs something a bit stronger than Nyquil if you know what I mean."

Doctor Shepherd laughed.

"Sure," he said. "I have a few more errands to run but I can come by in about an hour if that's alright?"

"That's perfect," said Sam.

 **A review is very appreciated, thank you! I've got the next chapter more or less written so it won't be a long wait … and, like I said earlier, I have a few one-shot ideas that I'm really hoping to get written out soon so if sick!Sam is your thing, follow my story alerts so you don't miss them :)**


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural.**

 **In what I'm pretty sure is record time, here's another chapter for you wonderful people :) *Make sure you've read Chapter 6, as I think the notifications were down when I posted it***

"That's perfect," said Sam.

He told the doctor what room they had at the motel, quickly paid, and left. Once back in the motel room, Sam hid any evidence of what they had been up to so as not to raise suspicions. Doctor Shepherd seemed pretty trusting of them – to the point that he didn't question Sam claiming to be a doctor working with the CDC at the tender age of twenty-two – but a bag of shot-guns and machetes might send the wrong impression.

While he was shoving their bag of weapons under the bed, Dean woke up.

"Sammy?" he mumbled and Sam glanced up from the floor, smiling at his brother.

"Hey," he said, quickly getting up and brushing his hands on his jeans. "How do you feel?"

"Like I've been hit by a truck," Dean groaned. "Everything hurts."

Dean coughed roughly, ducking his face into the crook of his elbow. He pulled away after a minute and saw bloody saliva on his forearm.

"Great," he muttered, reaching for a tissue.

"Yeah, about that," Sam said uncomfortably. Dean immediately looked up at Sam.

"What?"

"I ran into Doctor Shepherd in the grocery story," Sam said. "And the good news is that Thomas Lyons started responding to treatment this morning which means I think we burned the right bones and everything's taken care of."

"What's the bad news?"

"It's not bad news exactly …"

"Sam."

"Doctor Shepherd sort of offered to check up on you."

"You told him I was sick?!"

"Well …"

" _Sam_!"

Luckily for Sam, Dean's raised voice had triggered a coughing fit that consumed his brother for a solid five minutes.

"Why, man?" Dean managed to croak out once the coughing had stopped.

"Because you're really sick, Dean, and I'm not a doctor. I want to make sure you're going to be okay."

"Of course I'll be okay."

"You know, one of these times you won't be."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just that in our line of work, things eventually catch up with us and maybe one day I won't be there to make sure you're okay and you won't be."

"Don't be so dramatic, you sound like a soap opera."

"I do not," Sam retorted. "I'm being a realist but either way, the doctor is coming so you're just going to have to deal with it."

Dean glared at Sam but once again was well aware that he had no recourse.

"I bought pie," Sam said to change the subject.

"No thanks," Dean muttered and Sam sighed. He couldn't tell if Dean's refusal was out of principal – a way to reinforce how annoyed he was at his brother – or if he felt so terrible as to refuse his favourite food.

"What about some fruit? Or some toast?"

"No."

"How about Gatorade? You need to keep hydrated."

Dean knew Sam was right and agreed. He was sipping at it when there was a knock on the door.

"That'll be Doctor Shepherd," Sam said, crossing the room. With his hand on the knob, he glanced at Dean. " _Behave_ ," he added.

Sam opened the door and let Doctor Shepherd in.

"Thanks again for coming," Sam said, closing the door.

"It's the least I can do," Doctor Shepherd said. "It's always a comfort to know our country is in such capable hands and I'm happy to give back when I can."

Sam smiled and motioned towards Dean.

"Well, as I said, my partner's been hit pretty hard by this."

"I can see that," Doctor Shepherd went over to Dean, setting his leather bag on the end of the bed.

"How long has he been sick?"

"Since yesterday afternoon," Sam answered. Doctor Shepherd pulled out his stethoscope.

"How do you feel?" he asked Dean, taking a few steps towards the head of the bed. Sam gave Dean a pointed look before Dean sighed.

"Like crap, doc."

"Let's see what we can do about that. Can you take your shirt off please?"

Sam stood across the room, arms folded, as he watched Doctor Shepherd listen to Dean's chest and back, palpate his abdomen, take his temperature and blood pressure, feel his glands, and look in his eyes and mouth.

"If I didn't know any better," Doctor Shepherd said. "This looks almost identical to what the kids were suffering from."

He put his instruments back in his bag.

"But the good news is that you're young and healthy. It may take a few days but you'll be fine. But your partner was right to ask me to come and check on you," he said to Dean. "You've got a nasty chest infection brewing that won't go away without some serious antibiotics."

He pulled out a prescription pad and scribbled something on it. Sam joined him at Dean's bedside and took the piece of paper.

"Anything else we should be doing?" Sam asked.

"Bed rest and fluids," answered Doctor Shepherd. "Lots of fluids," he added, glancing at Dean. "You've got quite the fever and the fluids will also help break up some of the congestion."

"Got it, doc," Dean said in a much more respectful tone than he'd been using with Sam.

"Keep an eye on the fever," Doctor Shepherd said to Sam. "If it doesn't break or go lower than one hundred in the next three days, call me again or bring him to the hospital. Same goes it if spikes over one hundred and four at any point."

Sam nodded.

"Thank you so much again, Doctor Shepherd," he said. "We really appreciate it."

"My pleasure. Take care of yourself," he said to Dean. "And don't hesitate to call me again."

Sam saw him out of the hotel room and then sat on his bed, facing Dean.

"Don't say it," Dean muttered, reaching for his Gatorade again.

"Say what?"

"You were right, okay?" Dean continued. "Something is wrong and you saved my ass on this one."

"You'd have done the same for me." Sam said. "You _have_ done the same for me. You took care of me all the time growing up."

Sam glanced at the prescription he was holding.

"I'm going to get this filled," he said. "Can I get you anything else? I know you don't want to eat but is there anything that sounds at all appealing?"

"Tomato rice soup," Dean said and Sam smiled, recognizing the food his brother had always made for him when he was sick.

"You got it," he said. "I'll be back soon."

True to his word, Sam got the medicine and convinced Doris at the family restaurant to ask the chef to make the soup – as soon as she'd heard it was for the man "who'd been a few days earlier looking poorly", she was more than accommodating. Dean was sleeping fitfully when Sam returned to the motel room.

"Dean?" Sam asked, taking off his coat. "You okay?"

He took the soup and medication to Dean's bed and sat on the edge of the mattress.

"Dean, wake up," said Sam, shaking his leg. Dean's eyes flew open.

"Don't _do_ that!" he exclaimed, breathing heavy.

"Sorry," Sam apologized. "I have medicine for you."

Dean took the medication without complaint.

"Ready to try some soup?"

Again, Dean nodded and Sam found a relatively clean bowl in the kitchenette. He rinsed it out and poured about a third of the soup into it.

"Here," he said, handing Dean the bowl. He watched his brother eat as much as he could. After about a minute, Sam realized Dean was literally forcing every swallow so he wasn't at all surprised when ten minutes later, Dean was camped out on the bathroom floor.

Sam hovered in the doorway. He was about to say he was sorry for making Dean eat the soup but Dean, without even looking at Sam, held up a hand.

"Don't apologize," Dean said. "It's not your fault."

Sam sighed.

"Can I do anything?"

Dean hesitated for a moment before nodding.

"Help me up," he said. Sam hurried over and helped his brother stand and hobble back to his bed.

"You know something, Sammy?" Dean said, his eyes half-way closed as he leaned against his mountain of pillows. Sam pulled up the covers, noticing that he'd never done anything about the vomit stain from earlier that morning.

"What?"

"This isn't the first time you've taken care of me."

"What are you talking about?" Sam asked. "You never let me anywhere near you when you got sick growing up."

"Not that you can remember," agreed Dean. A faint smile appeared on his lips and he opened his eyes tiredly to look at Sam. Sam sat down in the chair, leaning forward to listen.

"You were about three, I think, and we were at Bobby's. I got the flu really bad and Bobby was trying to keep you away from me so you wouldn't catch it but you were not happy about that arrangement. Bobby was staying up all night with me and had been for a few nights in a row. He put you down for a nap one afternoon and he fell asleep, too. You woke up and by the time Bobby found you an hour later, you had planted yourself next to me. You insisted that you were taking care of me."

"What was I doing?"

"Not much," Dean answered. "You had made a facecloth wet and had put it on my forehead. No one was allowed to take it off – not me, not Bobby – and so it stayed there all afternoon. And so did you."

"Did I get sick?"

"Sure did," Dean smiled. "I read you so many books that week."

Sam smiled.

"I guess some things never change," he said and Dean looked earnestly at his brother.

"No, they don't," he agreed. "I was glad you were there then and I'm glad you're here now, Sammy."

"I'll always be here. You're my brother."

The sentimental moment lingered until Dean coughed.

"Well," he said roughly. "I'm going to get some shut eye. You should do the same; you look like you've been up for days on end. And after a nap, I'll try the soup again."

Sam laughed.

"Deal," he said. "Sleep well, Dean."

"You too, Sammy."

 **Thus concludes** _ **Cat's in the Cradle**_ **. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! And now that I'm on holidays, I really want to get to work on some of the other stories I have ideas for so stay tuned!**

 **Happy reading and writing,**

 **StoryLover18**


End file.
